No Daughter of the South (15 page)

The last moments felt awkward. I couldn’t decide between a friendly hug or a handshake. I was intensely aware of Bobby’s customers watching us through the big plate glass windows of the diner.

Finally I just punched him on the shoulder and walked away. I was almost across the parking lot when an irresistible impulse hit. I decided to liven things up around town, give Johnny a little explaining to do to keep him busy while I was gone. I turned, ran back across the lot, threw myself against him, and planted a big kiss on his lips. Then I turned toward the diner, and waved my hand like a beauty queen acknowledging her audience. I trotted back across the lot, hopped in the car, and peeled rubber speeding away. Gave the folks a little something to think and talk about. I bet Emma heard about it before I was ten blocks away.

I was up early the next morning, shoving some clothes in a backpack. Even so, by the time I walked in the kitchen, Momma had already finished the breakfast dishes and was washing windows. I dropped my backpack beside the door and poured myself a cup of coffee. Then I poured one for Momma and asked her to come join me. To my surprise, she put down her cloth and her spray bottle of window cleaner and did.

As she was sitting down, she said, “Daddy said for me to tell you he’s gonna miss you. He would have seen you off himself, but he had to get to the golf course before it gets too hot.”

“Right,” I said. I thought I had kept the tone unprovocative, but I guess it wasn’t enough.

Momma looked at me. Her eyes were pleading, but I didn’t know what for. “He
did
, Baby. Now don’t be that way. You know your daddy loves you.”

I knew I should let it drop, but I just couldn’t do it. “I do? How?”

“Well, of course, he loves you.”

“I’m supposed to know that on the basis of the fact that he never calls me, or writes me, or sends me a present? Or makes any effort to spend time with me even when I’m staying here in the house?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Daddy and I call you once a week. We send you cards and birthday presents. Of course Daddy wants to see you, but he’s a busy man. Don’t expect the whole world to revolve around you. I didn’t raise you like that.”

I looked around the kitchen at white eyelet curtains with blue ruffled tie-backs. Yellow and blue geese marched around the wallpaper. The floors and windows were spotless. If the family that ate in this determinedly cheerful kitchen wasn’t happy, could anyone be?

“You.
You
call me.
You
write the letters.
You
buy the presents.
You
spend time with me when I’m here.”

She looked puzzled. “Sure, honey, that’s the way the world works. But Daddy wants me to. It’s all from both of us.”

“I know that’s the way it works, but I’m tired of it. You’re assigned to do the stuff Daddy wants done, but doesn’t want to do himself. Cooking, cleaning, buying clothes. You’re assigned to love his problem child for him, too.”

“Why do you have to look at everything like that, Baby? Why do you try to make yourself unhappy? I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but I really think you need professional help. I’ve spoken to Dr. Franklin, and I think he’d be willing to work you into his schedule. As a favor for me.”

I started to say something, but she shook her head. “I swear I won’t say a word to your father or your brothers. Now don’t worry. Dr. Franklin says there’s no stigma to receiving professional help these days.”

“Momma, don’t. Please don’t.”

The rims of Momma’s eyes got red and she started sniffling. I went to the bathroom, got a box of tissues, and brought them to her. She took one and blew her nose. I patted her on the top of her hair-do. I wasn’t sure if she could feel it through the structure. “It’s all right, Momma. I’m sorry I made you cry. It’s okay. I’m
not
unhappy.”

“You might try thinking about someone else’s feelings now and then,” she sobbed.

That’s how I left her. I picked up my bag, and walked out, shutting the door carefully behind me.

It felt good to turn onto the highway and drive, just drive— radio up loud—sing and drive. I was headed north, into the deep Deep South.

It was a tacky hour’s drive past all the new shopping centers. The highway was four-lane, the traffic heavy.

But after a while, the highway was two-lane and the scenery was palmetto scrub. For long stretches, there were no cars behind me. Now and then I passed small towns, after awhile not even that—just places where three or four buildings were clustered out by the highway. I couldn’t find a radio station that appealed to me anymore, so I turned it off and sang to myself, pulling a soda out of the cooler Momma had packed for me, and had left on the front passenger seat.

I was having a good time, relieved to be out of that house where all my ambivalence and anxieties and failures lay around like ashtrays.

After all those years in Manhattan, I missed driving. This kind of driving, not the slam-dance driving in the city. Just a long road, and me. Kind of like meditation. As close as I get to it, anyway.

I had plenty of time to organize my thoughts, figure out what was going on. I’d pretty well decided that I would do an article for
The Rag
on the Klan rally. Maybe I’d describe it in the breathless tone of one of those articles telling about black-tie charity balls in the style section of the
Times
. I thought Jerry would probably go for that.

My first priority, of course, was my upcoming talk with Sammy’s mother. I’d chat with her, try to get her to open up about Elijah, to tell me what kind of man he really was. And, of course, I’d find out what she knew about the circumstances of his death. I’d ask her for the names of some of his friends who might still be around, then see if I could look them up when I got back to town. I thought maybe I’d write up all the interviews I did, put them together so Sammy would have a sort of family history to give the girls. Just thinking about it make me feel warm and generous.

I’d called Walter’s place the night before to try to set him straight, like Johnny suggested. But he’d been out, and I’d left a message for him that he should really behave himself until I got back and had a chance to talk with him. I hoped it was clear enough for him to catch the meaning, and cryptic enough to keep Johnny out of trouble.

It wasn’t until I’d been on the road for several hours, and almost two-hundred miles, that I realized that the same brown, nondescript car was in my rear view window every time I looked. Way back, but there all right.

First, I felt a little nervous. Then I was irritated at myself. I was being paranoid. After all, anyone wanting to head due north would take this highway. Once they got on, they’d naturally be behind me for quite a while.

So I slowed down to about forty-five. Which was real hard for me. Made me antsy. The brown car slowed down, too.

I went back up to seventy. It sped up, too. I stepped on it, went just about as fast as I dared. So did the car behind me. But it continued to stay far enough behind that I couldn’t get a real look at who was in it. I thought there were at least two of them. My stomach was tying itself up in Boy Scout knots, but I forced myself to remain calm and functional.

I pulled off into a gas station. The car drove on past. I looked hard. There appeared to be the driver and just one passenger beside him, both men. Not the least bit familiar.

I filled up with gas, used the predictably filthy bathroom, bought some of those peanut-butter-filled cheese crackers Momma used to buy for me and my brothers on long car rides when we were kids.

Then I hit the road again. Checked my rear view mirror a couple of times. The brown car was nowhere in sight.

After a few more hours, I was getting bored with my own singing. When I passed through a town with a K-Mart on the highway, I pulled off into the parking lot and went in.

I hadn’t been in one of those in a long time. After you’ve spent years shopping in those cramped places in the city, you start to appreciate the wide aisles. And there were whole families wandering around, pushing carts, leisurely picking out things to buy. Mothers and fathers who didn’t look like they’d wasted any time worrying about what to wear; kids with stained t-shirts, messy hair, dirty knees.

Wasn’t long until I found what I’d come in for. The bargain bin of cassette tapes. All of them a dollar ninety-nine. I took the best of the lot, which wasn’t saying much—Tony Bennett, the Monkees, Pavarotti, the Best of Disco—an eclectic mix. I paid for it all, along with a giant-sized box of Milk Duds that I couldn’t resist. Those stores are dangerous for me, and as I paid, I made a decision to abstain from them for at least another decade. I walked back across the parking lot, fully equipped for the last leg of my journey.

Except Milk Duds don’t really constitute a meal. Instead of pulling back out on the highway, I did a quick turn through the streets of the town, looking for nourishment. I saw a small bakery, bought a dozen doughnuts and a large cup of coffee. There now. A few more turns and I was back on the highway.

I stuck Pavarotti in the tape player. Seemed appropriate to eat doughnuts by. The land was hillier now, the vegetation greener, and the earth looked darker. I was in northwestern Florida, a completely different place than the one I’d left that morning.

There I was, driving, munching, sipping and singing my way north. I glanced into my rear view window, and my heart dropped into my doughnut-stuffed stomach. It was there again. I felt nausea churning as I realized that I should have gotten the license number when it passed me at the gas station back there. I thought about calling Johnny on the car phone to discuss this turn of events with him, but I didn’t want to have to tell him how stupid I’d been.

I was almost to the next turnoff on my journey, onto a smaller, less-traveled highway. It was getting late, and I could feel the dark getting ready to settle. The recent car chase fresh in my mind, I definitely didn’t want the brown car behind me as I drove down lonely, unfamiliar roads through the night.

I burrowed my coffee cup down among the doughnuts for safe keeping, and picked up the phone. I put it back down. I couldn’t very well call Sammy’s mother and ask her to come get me, could I? I mean, that’d be rude, and, besides, I didn’t want to put her in danger. And right there, it hit me. I was putting people in danger. I’d left my parents without telling them that the Klan was angry at me. I’d felt sure my daddy’s reputation would protect them, but then I’d been sure I could handle George that night in the car. I’d been worse than stupid. I’d been so prejudiced it had turned me stone blind. I’d been sure that no redneck southern Klansman could outsmart me that I’d ignored all the evidence of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, with all the wrong moves.

Sure, Johnny said he’d look after my folks, but didn’t they have a right to know that I may have endangered them? Shouldn’t I have owned up to my stupidity? And why was I so trusting of Johnny all of a sudden, when I knew about him and Forrest Miller? Maybe he just told me all that stuff about the drug bust and Walter to get me to let down my guard. I desperately wanted to believe that Johnny was a decent guy. I wanted to believe it in spite of the fact that he’d stayed in that crummy little town when he could have done better. In spite of the fact he’d once made two years of my life a living hell. In spite of the fact that I knew he owed his new position to Forrest Miller. And what kind of guy wants to be a police chief anyway? The only way I could get a handle on that was to picture him kind of like Furillo used to be on “Hill Street Blues.” But Furillo wouldn’t have told me about the drug bust, would he?

And Sammy’s mother. If it was the Klan tailing me, and they were still mad at me, I might be putting her in danger, too. I only had Johnny’s opinion that they wouldn’t keep pursuing me for my stupid behavior at the rally that night. Unless, of course, the guys in the brown car had nothing to do with the rally and instead were interested in my interest in Elijah Wilson. I’d been dancing around this in my head, but it was time to stop and face it. Johnny was right, I’d mentioned Elijah Wilson to almost everyone I’d spoken to since I got to Port Mullet. Just thinking about the possibility of his murder, even a thirty-five-year-old murder, chilled my guts. Up until that moment, I’d been thinking how brave I was. Strong, invincible. But I wasn’t brave, I was just stupidly impulsive, and careless with other people’s safety.

Sammy had faced this already, when we were talking on the phone. The minute she had realized that this wasn’t just a little human interest research problem she’d given me, but a mystery with unsavory possibilities, she had tried to get me to drop it. She hadn’t wanted to put me in danger. And I’d been too wrapped up in my pride, and this macho idea that I was gonna drag her daddy’s life story home to her, like some caveman with a dead mastodon. More like a kindergartner with a finger painting.

I saw what looked like a diner up ahead and pulled off into the small parking lot. I backed into a spot, parked right by the front door, under a pool of light.

I watched the highway for a few minutes. The brown car didn’t appear. I had made up my mind. I was going to call Mrs. Wilson and cancel my visit. Then I was going to drive back to Port Mullet, tell my parents about all the stupid shit I’d done in my short visit, and get the hell on the first plane to LaGuardia. I was determined to quit screwing around with things that were none of my business or over my head.

After two rings, someone answered the phone.

“Mrs. Wilson? I asked.

“Who’s calling, please?” asked a female voice.

“This is Laurie Coldwater,” I stuttered. “Is this Mrs. Wilson?”

Instantly the voice changed, became that sweet-sounding voice of the South that I have—okay, I’ll admit it—a certain incurable fondness for.

“No, honey. You’re Samantha’s friend Etta Mae is waiting for, aren’t you? I’m Sapphire, her sister, Samantha’s aunt. We are looking forward to your visit, child. Etta Mae is out in the kitchen right now, making her lemon pound cake, the one with the pudding mix in it and that sweet glaze, don’t you know.

“You just hang on, now, while I go get Etta. And drive careful, honey. Don’t hurry, but Lord, are we looking forward to seeing you.”

I held the phone, nearly busting my eyeballs trying to look through the dark south down the highway. Searching for the brown car that I was half afraid was a figment of my imagination, and half afraid wasn’t.

“Where are you calling from, Laurie?” came Mrs. Wilson’s voice, as sweet as, and very much like, Sapphire’s.

I told her where I was.

“Oh, you’re less than an hour away. Don’t eat anything, dear, if you can help it. I’ll have supper ready when you get here.”

“Thank you, but… Mrs. Wilson?”

“Etta Mae. Yes, honey?”